We saw a movie, and then we sat in the coffeeshop and drank my favorite bottled root beer. He said he'd never had root beer. (Don't they have root beer in the Ukraine?) When we were tired of sitting, we drove around, and then we walked around campus for a while. He asked me in (Not tonight). He asked resolutely to see me again.

Tomorrow?

I said I couldn't.
I never called him back.


After college, I contacted him to see what he was up to. Minneapolis.
He said he thinks of me when he has a root beer.


Likewise.

After having all last week off (snow, ice), we went back today. Grades, due last week, were of course pushed up to this week—all grades must be in the computer by 8 a.m. tomorrow. Joy.

I thought that part of the reason for getting a computer program to do the grades every term was so that the teachers could put in the quarter and exam grades and the computer would figure the semester average. Apparently I was wrong. The computer grading system only means that we no longer have to fill in bubble sheets. I am glad for that.

I shouldn't have been surprised when the end of the key fell into my lap. After noticing that the key was bent at a forty-five degree angle, I should have expected it. But I didn't. I had never seen a key do that before, and I've dropped my key chain many times before this without much ado—and though I'd heard of door keys breaking in frozen locks, since when were the ignition keys equally destructible?

I should have guessed that something like this would happen. It'd been a long day before I'd had to stay late. And now this.

In the five hours we waited, ten women came in for belly button rings, most college girls. One completely flipped out when they actually pierced her navel. She never got to the point involving the ring.

One guy came in for a tongue piercing, then left, then changed his mind and came back again.

While our artist ate dinner, we talked about different piercings. What was the weirdest request he'd had? Had he ever said no?

He told us a guy once wanted his uvula pierced; he wouldn't do it.


Why would you want to induce a constant gag reflex?

Resolutely ignoring the teacher, he slouches down and leans so that he takes two seats. Scribbling keeps his hands preoccupied while he whittles away the 27,000 seconds he must spend in this building day after day. He hopes she doesn't notice that he's not paying attention, but at the same time, he wants to be noticed.

She stops in the aisle next to his desk and looks at him for three seconds. She's tired of telling him to sit up, he knows.

Today she surprises him. "If you don't want to be here, I don't want you here. Get out."

A lot of people seem to have this crazy idea that if they believe something, then it must be true. Or if they don't, it can't be. Then they can't fathom the idea that their beliefs may be fallacious. Wars have been fought because of this inability to thrive in a pluralistic society/nation/world. Have wars, when it comes right down to it, ever been fought about anything else?

Why is it so hard to talk rationally with some people? Personally, I enjoy a healthy debate; an open-minded exchange of beliefs/opinions is good for the soul (assuming you believe in souls).

I live in a fairly religious community. In fact, I live right across the street from a Lutheran church. The bells wake me up by 9:30 every Sunday morning.

I was raised Lutheran. My grandparents were active participants in their church, and took my sister and I to Sunday School every week. I was confirmed in 8th grade. Memorized everything I was supposed to. I don't remember it now.

8th graders don't usually think through what they believe. They believe what their parents have taught them to believe; some of them will never question it. That scares me a little.

I haven't been to a normal church service in years. I tried to go a few times, when I moved here, so that I could meet people. But I felt so hypocritical… I had no intention of changing the way I lived my life, the way I still live it. To go every week and say that you're sorry for what you did, that you want help to change and do better next week…?

And to base your entire faith--your belief in "what God wants", nit-picky Rights and Wrongs--on a few select texts written by who knows who…?

why were they clapping

he would have shut up so much sooner if they'd've just sat there

i love ted kennedy's countenance all the way through

i cracked up when the camera focused on hillary who was scowling at the podium and when she realized the camera was on her she plastered a smile on her face and all i could think was that the smile looked painful

if i have to listen to him give another state of the union next year i'm throwing a margarita party that night

maybe it won't be so infuriating through a tequila buzz

Everyone should grow up with a mom who can do anything. That's not to say that if you can't do much Talent-wise now that you shouldn't become a mother; rather, sudden new Talents should appear suddenly upon becoming a mother (like the magical maternal spit that transforms into the most useful cleaning substance in the world).

My mother can draw, cook, bake, sew, wallpaper, and decorate just about anything. I grew up baking cookies and pretending to sew and making my own ornaments for the Christmas tree.

I wish every kid a childhood as wondrous as mine.

My therapist disagrees.

To My Students:

I love you all
In the most idealistic way:

You who can't sit still or be quiet
You who unliterally scream for attention

Especially you in whom I see reflections of myself or
my classmates, the pals or scorned peers;
That is Each of You.

You have the power to make me
Smile
Laugh
Cry
Remember
Wonder
Sympathize
Empathize
be Amazed
lose Sleep, worrying

But all of this happens less (and less) often
In the shadow of
No Child Left Behind
state testing
undone homework
uncaring slouching
blank stares
unwilling Participation
and
Other General Acts of Apathy

I wish I could effectively impart to you all I have learned about school in my many years of education:

I can't help you learn if you are unwilling.

The more you participate, the more you get out of it.

Sometimes teachers don't get much of a choice, just like you.

Except that you need to remember that you always have a choice; you just might not like the consequences.

Reading is desperately-needed brain exercise.

Everyone can (should) enjoy reading. Keep an open mind and keep searching till you find a style you like, then find more books like that.

And yet there is more:

The more ideas you are open to, the better you will get along with others. You needn't agree with them, just be able to listen to them without passing judgment; if you disagree, fine—you'll just have to agree to disagree. Do this—take yourselves out of the "narrow-minded scary people" grouping.

No two people agree about everything; never let yourself be bullied into believing something.

It's okay to disagree with your parents—in fact, it's healthy. (Just as long as you keep in mind what I said about being able to agree to disagree…)

I talked to a recently widowed friend the other night; she said she'd been thinking a lot about life, love, and partings, and how the last was always sad, but she implied that it was definitely worth the pain fifty times over again.

She spoke confidently of how I would find my soulmate and we would spend the rest of our lives together—fairly happily ever after, I suppose. But such happiness must always be bittersweet, because you know in the end, you will be parted.

I can only hope to find her kind of happiness, despite the necessary end.

And the last part…

Remember not to confuse fear with respect, especially if you're in charge.

Grades aren't necessarily indicative of how well you will do in life, but your effort, enthusiasm, and attitudes are.

You only deserve what you work to earn. Being merely a breathing member of the species Homo sapiens entitles you to nothing from the rest of us. Remember Stephen Crane:

A man said to the universe,
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe.
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

And always, always be prepared to prove it (whatever "it" is).

A friend of mine was once called to take a survey about advertising. Do you recall the commercial in which [this and that] happens? Do you remember what product that ad is for?

Isn't it amazing the number of ads you remember, even though you can't remember what it's trying to sell?

I love those identity-theft commercials ("$2500 for a leather bustier? But I don't care—it lifts and separates")—Is it good advertising if I remember it's for a credit card?

I miss the Snickers Cruncher commercials with the little dolls being stomped on ("I think your sister's pretty…)

When my sister and I were young enough to be forced (well, ordered) to go to church, we would do everything we could to keep ourselves entertained during the church service. We'd write messages on the back of our sermon notes. We'd also begin our next story/book, sometimes trading off (if we could escape parental detection).

The pastime I remember best, though, was when she finally learned long division. We'd make up problems through the whole service and make a huge (silent) deal over each other's mistakes. And then came algebra... equations and solve for x and y and foils….

I could say that I never go back to the other store because my new shopping haven has clean, wide aisles and everything's always stocked. They have a great seafood selection, excellent beef, fresh herbs, great produce, and heavenly bakery breads. You can feel the aroma of their coffee corner fold you in as you near it, unaware that your breathing has become deeper, more demanding. An inviting selection of wine.

But all of that would be a lie. It's nice. Maybe I really would be going there anyway. But really, I just keep hoping I'll run into him again.

If he knew what to say, he'd have said it by now. Instead, he stands, awkwardly unnoticed. He doesn't even warrant a glance as they pass, though at least they don't shove him and send his books and papers scattering down the hallway.

He watches until they are around the corner, hoping for a backward glimpse from her. He is left wanting. He did, though, at least get to enjoy the swaying hips from the rear view, which he seldom did—he thought it was rude. Today, though, he couldn't help himself. Besides, he reasoned, that wasn't his main priority.

I know I shouldn't open my eyes. I can't seem to find the muscles that will actually do so, anyway. That's a sign, right?

When my brain does finally send the right signals, my eyes are pried open against their will; peeling my eyelids upward is like dragging fine sandpaper over them, and for a few minutes, my eyes refuse to even focus on the clock, so I have to fumble around for the snooze button. Which means I can close my eyes again. For half an hour.

Dorothy Parker says it best: I'm a fool to rise at all.

Scanning the arriving crowd, he looked for faces he knew, friendly faces, familiar ones. There. Her. He'd worked with her. She'd been there when he'd been fired…

She was nice but naïve. He'd flashed his newly-pierced nipples one slow day at work and had been amused by her reaction—Why would you want to do that? When he'd told her what he planned to pierce next, she'd looked horrified.

She'd known him before he came out. He couldn't wait to see her face.

As part of their introductions, they announced their orientations. She didn't look even mildly surprised. The bitch.

The two strangers concentrated on using their supreme peripheral vision powers to observe each other, though they sat directly opposite each other with only two tables and two chairs between them. They each had their professional work strewn before them, though his work consisted of one script (Arsenic & Old Lace), one softback (borrowed from the store), and one yellow legal pad with scrawled notes in thick, powerful blue ink on the first ten pages.

Her work, on the other hand, filled two three-ring binders, one clearly labeled "Gradebook & Lesson Plans" and one plain green one filled with charts.

I recently had reason to go through my college papers—essays, stories, etc. I couldn't believe it. Had I really sent those pieces in to the arena of the red pen? Had I really thought they were deserving of anything less than a mundane C?

I hadn't realized how my writing has changed. Nay, it isn't my writing which has changed, but the process I go through now, more thoroughly. I am more aware of the power of the work I extend to the world. And I am afraid to be proven unworthy by a misused word or ill-placed comma.

Numerous papers and florescent Post-Its angled out from the otherwise (seemingly) neatly arranged papers inside, a tell-tale sign that her organization is merely a show.

The bookstore café around them buzzed with mid-Sunday afternoon conversation and the scribbling of other writing utensils and the mumblings of students studying. Both of our characters often looked up at the same motion in the section of bookshelves next to them.

Despite their curious periphery glances, they only looked directly when sure the other was focused on the task at hand. And they left without saying hello, never once even exchanging a courteous smile.

I don't understand how people listen to audio books; they drive me nuts. I imagine the story and picture the words as they're spoken, so it's like I'm reading them anyway. Every now and then I'll think, "That's not the way that line was intended to be read." I'll then obsess about it for the next ten minutes. (If the offense is particularly aggrievous, I'll obsess about it in the back of my mind all day.) I've done that ever since I learned to read. Teachers would read aloud and I'd think, "No, you didn't read that right; try again."

There's something really sad about dreading the next day. Because it'll be Friday. Then the weekend. And the approach of the weekend only means the beginning of yet another week.

Instead of relaxing and enjoying my weekend, I only find myself counting hours (and by Sunday night, minutes) till I have to wake up and face Monday.

I didn't used to be like this. I used to count the hours and minutes until Something Exciting, however little: a day excursion with friends, a vacation, the school day's, the final marking of an exam, an anticipated phone call, a potential glimpse.

Smile like you're actually amused. Chuckle a little if you think you can do it without sounding like you're faking it. Blush and look away when complimented. Ask lots of questions. Store the answers in the part of your brain where there is no delete button. Don't look him in the eye too often—eyes are dangerous: strong undertows. Memorize features. Talk openly about your life, the imaginary one. Be brilliant. Touch infrequently, lightly—hands and arms only; bestow a kiss at the end of the night. It's a gift, a wordless thank you which, of course, is not obligatory.

Misplaced.
No, that's not the word. Displaced.

There's a sense of universal wrongness about my life. Like I'm in the wrong place, I took a wrong turn—or maybe someone else took a wrong turn and took me with them.

This feeling of "not supposed to be here" becomes more prevalent every day. Like I'm a cat being stroked the wrong way. Like I'm a chess piece in a checker game.

I'm supposed to be something else. Not this.

When my advisor asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?" I should've screamed "NO!"

Today, I will. I must.

I become a miserable wretch when I don't read.

My first apartment had a clawfoot bathtub that was key to my survival my first year of teaching. I didn't have a shower, so every night I washed my hair in the kitchen sink after I had filled the tub with hot water. Then, when my hair was wrapped turban-style in a towel, I would ease into the tangible comfort of the bubbly depths.

Every night I'd have the hour for which the water stayed warm to read. Lost in fantasy, in others' lives, I could effectively put reality on hold.